


young and beautiful

by KyberHearts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chinese Culture, First Meetings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It gets really fluffy at the end, M/M, Slow Romance, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/KyberHearts
Summary: “I am giving you three flowers that tell my story. Listen closely.”Chirrut Imwe, who has lived blind all of his life, decides to adopt a failed sight-seeing dog. Somehow, he crosses paths with Baze Malbus, a tired flower shop owner with a "No Dogs Allowed" sign on his window.





	1. daffodils

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is my first ever fic and something like a writing exercise for present tense, third POV, as well as researching a lot about Chinese culture. I am Chinese myself, but haven't had a lot of exposure with a lot of traditions and mannerisms. Please share your thoughts with me as I write this fic.
> 
> Flower symbolism is sourced from Wikipedia.
> 
> Thank you so much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translated version [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9515153/chapters/21517352) by Seinano!

When he unlocks the garage doors and breathes in the dark, earthy air, this is the time Baze Malbus is reminded of a home far, far away. Sunrise timidly dances along the windowsills; he sees how the light alights on the empty vases that line the shelves. There are many, many vases that need flowers to hold. The first shipment arrives in fifteen minutes, and surprisingly, on time. Baze picks up bundles of assorted flowers in his arms and drops them on the counter. He hardly needs the help of the delivery man, who misses the quiet power in the owner’s older body.

There are roses, of course, but Baze is much more interested in the magnolias and the peonies. His mother, who tended to a garden during her life, was named the after latter. It’s a name from another language, one that Baze murmurs under his breath when there is no one else in the store. He attracts a loyal clientele in this town. Most come to buy flowers for their loved ones who have passed away. Some clients rush in, laughing, enraptured in their partner’s eyes and purchase flowers by the dozen.

Baze could have ordered pre arranged bouquets, ones that are thrown together because of their complimenting colors or shapes, but he prefers to handle the individual flowers himself. Often times he has been complimented by his customers, so he has no intention to stop now. It is like meditation. Breathing softly, in and out, living his mother’s memories, and he humbly displays these flowers outside in large, jade-green vases.

People live by the clock. First comes the fresh flowers, then the arrangements. Baze takes a half hour to eat breakfast on a bench positioned in front of the shop. He leans back, steamed buns in hand, and watches the world around him, the joggers, the dog-walkers, the vendors, wake up with a mission of their own. He sees college students of varying shapes and sizes stroll or sprint towards the campus. He recognizes most of their faces because they walk the same route every day.

Then all of the sudden, something steals the last bit of breakfast from his hand.

Baze stares incredulously.

It’s a dog.

“Drop it!” he says sharply, and the animal hesitates. Maybe it doesn’t understand what Baze said, but the tone suggests that this is bad behavior. The dog lets the bun fall from his mouth and sits back on its haunches. Baze leans down to pick up the bun. He looks at the dog and says, “I don’t think you should be eating this.” The dog cocks its head. To the left and then to the right. Baze sighs. He used to have a dog, very, very long ago. Now Baze is old and there is a “No Dogs Allowed” sign on his storefront.

“Where’s your master, huh?” he asks crassly, chasing those memories away. The dog pants. “Go home. Go home!”

“She doesn’t speak Chinese.”

The voice comes from down the street, to Baze’s left, and he squints at the man. It takes Baze a moment, but he recognizes the man who sometimes walks this way on the weekends. Baze always knows when he passes by, because he has a walking stick that incessantly sweeps against the pavement.

Chirrut Imwe is blind, and has been, for all of his life.

“This is your dog?” Baze asks incredulously.

“Yes,” Chirrut sighs. “She only understands English, though. My own Mandarin is too broken.”

Now Baze realizes that they’ve been speaking Mandarin. He hears that the dialect is unfamiliar on Chirrut’s lips and Baze himself is limited to his Cantonese vocabulary. So their conversation, inevitably, changes to English. “Where is its leash?”

“Here,” Chirrut holds up a pink leash in his other hand, the other so devotedly carrying the long cane; it is old with scars and lashes from constant use. He readjusts his hold on the cane and lets out a brief chuckle, then continues to say: “She ran away before I could clip it on her. Thankfully she did not go far.” He carefully navigates his way towards Baze and the waiting hound, and kneels down. 

“Let me,” Baze begins to say, reaching for the leash. Chirrut holds up a hand to stop him.

“No, I must learn.” Chirrut puts down his cane and says to the dog, “Come here, girl.” She bounds over to him and allows him to fumble around for the chain. Baze watches how the dog sits, obediently, yet turns its head to look all around. Its tongue hangs out goofily. Chirrut manages to clip the leash, checks the tension, and then scratches the dog around the ears. “Good girl.” Chirrut inclines his head at Baze. “I’m sorry for your breakfast.”

He looks at the ruined bun and drops it in the outside trash can. “Eh, it’s fine. Why do you have a sight-seeing dog?”

Chirrut sighs again. It seems as if this dog tests much of his renown, infinite patience. “She was trained to be a guide, but ultimately was too unpredictable for new owners. I decided to ta- hey!” The dog, true to his words, suddenly ran forwards and headbutted Baze’s hands, begging for a pat. Baze refuses and tucks his hands into his frock. “-to take her.”

“Is that wise?” Baze asks, not caring if he sounds too blunt.

“Nope,” Chirrut replies cheerfully. His blind eyes sweep over Baze, emotionless, but the smiling wrinkles around his eyes tell a different story. The flower shop owner realizes just how old they are. They are both old men with hidden histories. “Say, I’ll make it up to you. Do you like tofu pudding?”

“Oh,” Baze says, mildly confused. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m perfectly fine.” Baze doesn’t really remember what tofu pudding tastes like, anyways. He stands up. There is a stifling realization at how he towers over the blind man, and then checks himself. “I should get going. The shop. Flowers.”

“Maybe I’ll buy some later,” the blind man wonders aloud. “You’ll have to describe them to me.” He nods at Baze. Then with a whistle, he trots away with the dog. The dog’s ears are perked, tail wagging, and it looks back at Baze curiously. They disappear after a minute, disappearing down one of the side alleys that lead to the university campus.

“The dog,” Baze says absentmindedly, belatedly. “The dog will have to stay outside. Too messy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **daffodils** : new beginnings


	2. lilacs

Outside, he can hear a chatter of discourse and wonders if there is truly no escape from the war that rages all around them. But when Baze moves around the counter and towards the window, he sees a group of college students crowded in a circle. Whether on the way home or on the way to night classes, they seem halted by a distraction. Baze steps slightly to the doorway and glimpses twinkling eyes and sharp, listening ears.

The dog.

Baze wavers, and his mind demands that he remains firmly planted inside of the store. But he is spotted by one of the familiar college students: a sly, lanky, and charming young man who sometimes buys flowers from the store on the weekends. “Baze!” he yells, and waves him over. “We have questions.” Eyes turn, and even the dog looks at him.

He throws his frock on the bench and lumbers over. Cassian Andor grabs his arm and pulls him, clearly excited by whatever they’re discussing. About five other students are huddled around the dog. “All right,” he says, eyes flicking at Baze. “What dog breed is this? It’s- it’s obviously a Belgian Malinois.”

“What?” another student snorts. This, too, is a familiar face and Baze remembers her name. Jyn Erso kneels to scratch the dog’s sides. “German Shepherd.”

“How would you know that?”

“My mother told me about them.” She shrugs. “I know my dogs.”

Cassian let out a little breathless, half-chuckle, half-scoff. The other college students, presumably, their classmates and friends, begin to discuss the appearance and build of the dog. There is no clear identity that the students can confirm. Jyn keeps insisting that it is a German Shepherd. “We’ll see about that.” He pulls out his phone and begins searching through his contacts.

“Please don’t call Kay-”

“I’m calling Kay.”

Standing patiently behind the dog, Chirrut smiles in Baze’s general direction. “And how was your day?” he asks.

“Quiet,” he says, and looks at the dog. It sure looks like a German Shepherd. It has the air and poise of the breed. “How was yours?”

“The same.”

“Kay!” Cassian yells at his phone, holding it flat on his palm. “What’s the difference between a Belgian Malinois and a German Shepherd?”

There is a slight pause, and then a vexed, indignant English voice sounds on speaker. “You called me to talk about dog breeds? I was in the middle of class. I was-” Kay stops. There’s a bit of silence, and then a curious, “What does the dog look like?”

“Black and tan long-haired,” Jyn shouts.

“Ah. Jyn Erso. So nice to hear your voice.” There’s no denying the dripping ice from his voice, but it only makes her roll her eyes. “Black and tan and long-haired sounds like a shepherd.” Cassian’s defeated groan almost drowns out Jyn’s victory cry. Almost. “Damn. Was Jyn the one who suggested a German Shepherd? Sorry, Cassian.”

“It’s all right, buddy. Talk later.” Cassian disconnects the call, sighs, and hands over a pristine dollar bill over to Jyn. “All right, all right. Can we just agree that this is a very handsome dog?”

“You’re such a good puppy,” Jyn croons, and the dog kisses her.

Baze cannot help the smile on his face as he watches the young people squabble and adore the dog. He sees that his smile is mirrored on Chirrut’s face. “Could I buy some flowers from you?” asks Chirrut.“Or have you closed already?” Jyn and Cassian chime in, saying that they’d like flowers too. 

“I have some bouquets left. Come in and see.” He bites his lip. “No dogs allowed inside the shop. There’s, uh a sign.”

Chirrut turns to his dog and quietly tells her to stay seated as he ties the leash to the bench. The two college students, flanked by their friends, pick and choose flowers from the vases on the wall. Baze rings up their purchases one by one, and even slips in a few flowers for free. Jyn is extremely pleased with her lilies while Cassian remarks that the sunflowers were his parents’ favorite.

The young man is a prime example of how the war took families; he lost his parents at an early age and now considers his campus his family. He hates the war, he hates it, but fights with his education. The majority of students at the town college are focused in some aspect of political science. Sometimes he dreams of seeing the end of the war. Sometimes he doesn’t.

By the time the students leave the store with arms full of flowers (and they stop briefly to give a parting scratch to the dog), Chirrut turns to Baze and asks if there are any bouquets left. There are, in fact, none. Baze feels guilty and immediately begins to apologize. “It’s fine,” Chirrut laughs. Gods, can nothing faze this man? “You sold out. Great business.”

“I should thank you and your dog,” Baze says, beginning his evening routine and closing the shop. Chirrut doesn’t mind hanging around. Baze cleans the cash register, collects receipts, and begins to dump the leftover water down the drain. He goes outside momentarily to collect the jade vases and return them to the back storeroom. They gleam softly, green and mellow. “What’s the dog’s name, anyways?”

“Ah,” Chirrut muses, leaning against the counter. “The trainer called her ‘Fourth’ because she was the fourth dog to be trained. But that seems out of place, don’t you think? Like you’re the fourth child to be born and your mother decides to call you ‘Fourth’.”

“The dog responds to the name?”

“Occasionally. She prefers to do whatever is the most interesting.” Chirrut runs a hand through his short, cropped hair. Baze looks over and sees a faded scar that lines his scalp. He nearly knocks over a vase, distracted, but manages to finish his chore. “She was the one who stopped in front of your shop and refused to move. She’s a… a force of nature.”

Baze collects his frock and hangs it on a rack, where it will wait for him until tomorrow morning. He throws all of his agenda and folders into a duffle bag and slips it over his shoulder. He gives the shop one last scan, and then fishes the keys from his pocket. Chirrut hears the jingle of metal and guesses that it is time to leave. He holds out a hand, and Baze hesitates.

“Will you take my hand, Baze Malbus?” Chirrut asks, amused. “I would hate to knock over any of your vases.”

Tongue-tied. That’s all that describes Baze as he wraps his hand around Chirrut’s and leads him outside. It is the blind man’s nature to be jovial and grinning. This seems foreign to Baze. Perhaps, to a younger model, he would join in Chirrut’s mirth. But they are old, and Baze is fixed in his silent, skeptical personality. He clashes with Chirrut. Sooner or later, they might realize that there is conflict where could be, in younger days, harmony.

Chirrut seems willing to walk with Baze back to city life where they could buy from a street vendor and eat and laugh over some radical idea. But Baze shakes his head, says  _ perhaps another time _ , and wishes him and his dog a good night. Baze locks the garage doors.

He places his forehead against the doorframe. The tired man breathes slowly and takes a minute to recollect his thoughts. As he walks home, his thoughts turn to distracted daydreaming as he builds bouquets that speak messages of young love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **lilacs** : youthful innocence, memories, first emotion of love


	3. mistletoe

As the days pass, Baze makes sure to always keep one fresh bouquet reserved in case the blind man ever decides to show up again. So far, the flowers have always traveled home with Baze. Sometimes he gives them to a friendly restaurant owner while buying dinner. Baze lives on the outskirts of the town’s faux Chinatown; faux, because there’s not enough of a demographic. This part of town unites the scattered, often displaced families through culture and language and food.

It is the weekend before the Lunar New Year when Chirrut finally appears. He ties his dog to the bench outside, gives her a loving scratch, and steps inside of the doorway. He happens to arrive when the two young students, Cassian and Jyn, have returned to buy flowers. “Do you have any more magnolias?” asks Cassian, peering for the white petaled flower.

“Uh, maybe,” Baze replies, not having seen Chirrut yet. “Who are the flowers for?”

“Kay,” Cassian says absentmindedly, and Jyn looks incredulously at him.

“Why are you buying Kay flowers?”

“He’s been feeling sad lately. I want something to cheer him up.”

Baze points to a vase next to Cassian’s shoulder. “Daisies are nice. And…” Baze walks to a vase on a top shelf, purple orchids swaying just within reach. He reaches them easily and offers them to Cassian. “Would you like more variety?”

“Just one more, maybe. How about roses?”

“The colors of roses tell different messages, and the colors I have are more suited to couples,” Baze says. “But a borage will be good for defining courage.” With Cassian’s approval, Baze collects the myriad and rolls them in a translucent paper. He makes sure to add a blank card that the young man may later fill out. Cassian pays, and give thanks. “And for you, Jyn?”

“None for me, thanks,” she replies. “I’m on my way over to the protest.” Cassian turns to her, horrified, whispering,  _ Is that today? _ The two college students spring on their phones to text their friends and arrange a rendezvous on the campus for the global protest.

Baze finally sees Chirrut standing in the corner of the room. “Chirrut,” he says, startled.

“Hello,” Chirrut greets cheerfully. “I don’t trust myself to walk around, so I’ll stay here.” But Cassian, chiding the blind man, takes his arm and leads him to the counter. “Thank you very much, Cassian. I’m sure your friend will enjoy those sunflowers.”

“I sure hope so,” he laughs. “These are some quality flowers.”

Now Chirrut turns to Baze, still with that placid expression on his face, and asks, “Do you still have some flowers?”

Baze is prepared. “Yes,” he says, and then remembers to ask, “Do they have any special purpose?” The bouquet he reserves has no real meaning. There are flowers for friendships, grief, joy, innocence, romance, and forgiveness.

“They’re for a very special lady,” says Chirrut.

“Oh,” says Baze.

“My neighbor’s daughter.”

“Oh,” says Baze again.

“Aw,” Cassian coos. “Any flower Baze has, I’m sure she’ll love.”

So Baze concocts a special bouquet that shouts with color and meaning, of youth, joy, and a long future ahead for the said 8 year old. He even puts a little heart sticker on the wrapping paper. He patiently, and admittedly, curiously, watches Chirrut take out a wallet and gently extract the proper bills and coins. They are folded uniquely to differentiate the paper money, and his fingers curl around the edge of quarters and pennies.

Jyn and Cassian have since spotted the dog and rushed outside to pet her. “Do you work, Chirrut?” asks Baze. 

“No,” he answers. “I sometimes babysit my neighbor’s daughter, but otherwise I take walks and meditate. And eat.” Chirrut laughs. It’s such a jovial sound. For the first time, Baze really takes a look at Chirrut and notes his dark blue sweater, which looks as soft and snug, fits loosely and hides his slim and lean frame. He slings a light-colored bag on his shoulder, and gently touches a shelf next to him. His fingers, trembling, glide over the petals of a patient sunflower.

“Baze!” Jyn calls, stepping back into the shop for a moment. “Are you going to the protest, too?”

Before he can answer, Chirrut already adds his own thoughts: “Oh yes! That’s at the campus, correct?”

“We’re going to walk there now, if you want to come along,” Jyn offers. The daft dog tries to stick her head into the shop, but Jyn gently nudges her snout away. “Baze?”

“The-” he mumbles. “The shop-?”

“We will be gone for only an hour or two,” says Chirrut, smiling.

He agrees, reluctantly. Baze is not an antisocial individual, but it does make him feel strange to consider attending a ‘young’ person’s protest, as he imagined it. Mostly college students and their friends, perhaps. But as Baze drew closer to the location of the protest, he sees faces who are as old and weathered as his. They are holding signs like their younger counterparts, with the same messages of equality and love and hope.

“What can you see?” Chirrut yells to Baze even though they’re standing next to each other. Though they stand away from the crowd, not wanting to be in the midst of the protest, the noise roars with chants and promises. His dog, thankfully, seems unperturbed by the noise, and has elected to lie down and wait.

“Many people,” Baze shouts back. “Most are students. I see some older people, perhaps parents. Teachers, professors. They’re holding signs and posters.”

Chirrut asks, “And what do they look like?”

“What?”

Chirrut turns slightly to him, and Baze is stunned by his smile. “Are they laughing? Angry? Sad?” Baze lets his gaze linger on Chirrut, and then switches to the crowd. The blind man keeps speaking. “They have come here because they are angry about the war and the inaction. So why do they shout about love?”

“I think they are proud,” Baze says to him. “Their eyes are sad but their mouths are determined. Some of them are crying. Some are happy tears; some are sad. They are proud to have a voice in this time.” Baze recognizes Jyn and Cassian holding flags and yelling, though their voices are too far away to hear. He even sees a bouquet of daisies, orchids, and borage thrust high into the air next to the flags and signs, possessed by a tall individual that he guesses is Kay.

“Yes, that sounds right.”

The people here look exhilarated.

On the brink of exhaustion.

Willing to keep fighting.

“Baze.” Suddenly, Chirrut sounds stern. “Who are those people?” At first, Baze has no idea what the blind man could’ve possibly spotted. But then he sees them. A group of serious looking individuals who dress and act differently than the protesters. They dress in white and wear caps and sunglasses. His skin bristles as he senses an air of hostility around them. 

As they draw closer, unnoticed by the crowd and protesters, Baze is able to spot the emblemed bandannas wrapped around their forearms and his breath catches. “They fuel the war,” Baze hisses. “Fanatics. Unstable for warfare, so they are assigned to towns like these. I hoped they were lying low for a while.”

Chirrut’s grip on the dog’s leash tightens ever so subtly, but of course the dog notices and sits up, attentive. He calms her with a couple of strokes. “Will they cause trouble?” he asks.

“I think not,” says Baze, but to be safe, he takes Chirrut by the arm and guides him away. For the next half hour, Baze keeps a wary eye on the fanatics.  There are only five of them, vastly outnumbered by the hundreds of protestors. After a while, they slowly make their quiet leave. No one pays attention to them; the opposite of what they had come to seek.

There is a stage where individuals are invited to go and speak about the event. They are speakers of different and mixed colors, those who speak English with strong and slight accents, and some leap on the podium and some need assistance hobbling to the microphone. Some give rousing speeches. Some only say a few sentences.

Jyn, for instance, is one of those latter individuals. She makes her way to the front with Cassian’s help, and climbs on the stage. All recognize her and know that it is her father who helped the very force they fight against. But Jyn proved herself over and over again, and now without prompting, she is worthy of anyone’s respect.

“I never imagined that I would be standing here, alongside all of you,” she says into the microphone, dark eyes flicking over the crowd. “Things look bleak, but I know that we must keep hoping that one day, we will wake up, and all of this fighting will be over. We will be free to be who we are. Someone once- ”she hesitates, and Baze swears that she looks at Cassian. “A good friend continues to tell me that rebellions are built on hope.”

Baze and Chirrut clap, their quiet demeanor unlike the cheering of the protesters, but passionate all the same.

Baze begins to think that perhaps he and Chirrut did not clash as terribly as he had predicted. Here they stood without incident. Sure, Baze allows himself to stare at Chirrut a little longer than was appropriate, but he did it because Chirrut didn’t know. He blinked when the shorter man abruptly turns his head and looked up at him. “Are you ready to leave?” The insinuation, the intonation, that they would leave together like they were some old married couple!

“Yes,” says Baze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **mistletoe** : used to signify a meeting place where no violence could take place


	4. ivies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of self-harm

The dog comes trotting over the hill, grinning, nose covered in dirt, her amber eyes sparkling. Baze cannot help but give a soft laugh as she makes a beeline for him. He pops the last of his steamed bun into his mouth and brushes the crumbs off his frock. “Hey,” he chides the dog as she begins to sniff for food. “Nothing here.”

“Aiyoh,” comes Chirrut’s exasperated sigh as he shuffles into sight. He’s dressed in black this morning. It gives the man a sense of formality or melancholy, except the smile on his worn face seems out of place. He turns his head and listens intently to the area. This is a Saturday morning; there are no students heading to the campus, and Baze is not expecting much business today. Chirrut comes to a stop in front of him and shakes his head. “Silly dog.”

In response, she just lies down at Baze’s feet and pants.

“You’re lucky she doesn’t run away,” Baze sniffs, moving to one side of the bench for Chirrut to sit. Baze notices that he carries a red lunchbox in addition to his regular attire, and his suspicions are confirmed when he pulls out a container of tofu pudding. “Oh, Chirrut, you shouldn’t have-”

“I know you just finished your breakfast, but this will stay warm,” he waves off Baze’s concerns (and the man dimly wonders if Chirrut smelled the steamed buns in his breath). “Have it for lunch, or dinner, but warm it up if it’s too cold.” When Baze takes the tupperware from Chirrut, he is distracted by his callused touch. He pulls away before it becomes awkward.

But Chirrut grabs his wrist. His gaze remains fixd on Baze’s face as his fingers trace a long, bumpy scar that down on Baze’s right wrist. “What happened here?” he asks. The touch is dizzying Baze; it’s overwhelming, it’s enthralling. “Baze, is it okay that I asked?”

He swallows. He must’ve waited too long. “Yes.” Baze stammers. “I spilled hot oil. When I was younger. Making  _ jian dui _ .” Chirrut’s hands trail over to his knuckles. There are faded, jagged scars. “I cut my hands on glass.”

Chirrut lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, my. Not that I was innocent or anything. Look at this.” He pulls down his sweater neckline and shows Baze a wide keloid on his shoulder and back. “From a fight. I was a very emotional youth. I have other scars that bear witness to that. I am not proud of all of them.” He picks up his white cane and places it across his knees. “Do you see this?”

It is a small gemstone pendant carved like a tiger. Nestled in Chirrut’s palm, the unusual crimson color of the cinnabar invites Baze to pick it up and examine it more closely. However, he is content to leave it for now. It could be very personal to Chirrut. “Where is it from?”

“Home,” he replies. “I received it as a reminder when I began looking towards prayer and meditation and other means to devote my life. I started when I was sixteen. When I meditate now, sometimes I think about life before the war,” says Chirrut. “Understandably, that’s not recommended. Always look at the present. Focus at the task at hand. But it’s difficult, you know. Wishing for the life before the war.”

“Did you have family?” asks Baze.

“No. I was an orphan. You?”

“A mother.” Baze glances at the resting German Shepherd. “A dog.”

“And now?”

“The shop.” He shrugs halfheartedly, not knowing, not caring if Chirrut would know. “It’s my life.”

Chirrut nods slowly. He’s thinking. “You must let a lot of people into your life,” he says, “to come and buy your flowers.”

“I only sell flowers because they help tell a story,” Baze corrects slowly. “Roses apologize. Columbines for divorce. Sweetpea for thanks, wheat for wealth. My mother had a garden and sold flowers. I suppose I do this in her memory.”

Chirrut’s dog sits up and looks at the pair, tongue hanging out. She gives a little whine. Chirrut rubs her head, but she tries to paw Baze’s leg. When he lightly scolds her, she decides to lay her head between his knees instead. Baze hesitantly, slowly reaches his hand out and touches her fur. “She will not bite,” says Chirrut.

“I’m not scared of being bitten,” Baze retorts. “I’m just remembering my own dog… make sure you put a leash on her. A harness. Dog tags. So she doesn’t run away.” Chirrut places a reassuring hand on Baze’s shoulder.

“I will,” he says. Chirrut ruffles his dog’s neck. “You seem stressed about something, or many things. Have you considered engaging in prayer and meditation?”

“Chirrut, don’t do this to me,” Baze chuckles, sounding a little uncomfortable. “Are you trying to convert me?”

“I can’t convert you to any ideal or faith,” he replies. “I don’t particularly follow anything myself. I just think a lot. And speak what I think.”

“I had faith,” says Baze. His words escape before he can mute them. “It took my life.”

For him, it has always been a sensitive subject with faith and religion and placing trust in an uncontrollable, unseen force. He was like Chirrut: he began when he was young. And then the war happened and it felt like everything changed. You prayed and you gave and you exchanged your life for trust. When the force lacked to return your faith, you found yourself praying less and less.

Chirrut’s lips pull into something like a grimace. “It gave me mine.” He thumbs his little tiger pendant. “Close your eyes, Baze. Imagine that you are standing on the sidewalk of a crowded, bustling street. There are noises all around you: people behind and cars in front. You have the decision to take a step in either direction. Backwards, towards the people, means you live. Forwards means you don’t.”

“Did your faith pull you back into the world of the living?” asks Baze.

“No,” he says. “I made the decision to step forwards. And then something… something told me to step back, to go back.” He rubs his scalp. “I owe... whatever that faith was… my life.”

The dog whines. Baze shushes her, but Chirrut’s laugh returns and the tension alleviates. He doesn’t seem to mind that their conversation has moved onto lighter topics. “What a naughty dog,” Baze remarks.

“She is rather roguish,” Chirrut admits. “But she’s young.”

“Too bad we’re not.”

“No one ever said that old age was an obstacle.”

Baze groans. “Tell that to my aching joints.” He stretches and now absentmindedly scratches the dog’s head. “I’ll get some water for your rogue.” He ducks inside for a bucket and turns on the outside faucet. The shepherd drinks sloppily, and then gives Chirrut a collection of wet kisses. She makes a soft  _ whuff _ and then lies down again.

“Perhaps I should teach her a new name,” Chirrut murmurs. “A name of a flower?” Baze looks at him sharply, daunted by the responsibility that he will likely give this dog a name. This is Chirrut’s dog. This is not Chirrut’s  _ and Baze’s _ dog. 

“Not a flower,” Baze says cautiously. “Go with something else.”

“But-”

“Chirrut, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”  _ Bullshit. _

“Well,” the blind man hesitates. “Do you have any ideas?”

“It’s not my dog.” His dog was dead, probably. Disappeared, just like his home. Buried under rubble. Is this where the old men will clash? Not over politics nor religion, but over some dog’s name? No, this strikes deep. Something else than the dog’s name or faith or flowers. Baze realizes; it’s everything. If he wants Chirrut-

Hold on. What does that mean, he  _ wants _ Chirrut? It’s the feeling of belonging that Baze grips and refuses to let go whenever the blind man stops outside of his shop. Something only young people should ever experience; he fights with himself. This is what he fears about old age. If he wants Chirrut to stay, with him, it seems apparent that they cannot keep their pasts unspoken.

“I know she’s not your dog, Baze, but something’s bothering you.” His voice is etched with worry. “How can I help you? Let me understand. Tell me.” Oh, and Baze wants very much to open up to this man with a worn face and a young soul. But how does he explain?

His gaze drifts to the flower shop. Part of him wants to hide, forever, behind the counter. But then he knows. Baze will tell him, but in a language that Baze feels comfortable with. He puts a heavy hand on Chirrut’s shoulder, says “Stay here,” and disappears into the shop.

“Please come back,” Chirrut says jokingly. Perhaps jokingly.

Baze returns in a minute or two, and tells the dog to sit calmly. Then Baze kneels in front of Chirrut and takes his hands. “I am giving you three flowers that tell my story. Listen closely.” He searches Chirrut’s face for approval and when receives a slight nod, continues. “I am going to describe them.

“This is a jasmine flower.”

When I was young, I had a mother who tended a garden. She told me constantly that one day, Baze Malbus, this castle of flowers will belong to you. Every morning, I would run out and check if the peonies and magnolias had started blooming. Time was spent watching the flower bloom, walking the dog, and listening to my mother preach her faith. I went away to work but I always returned to see how the flowers painted the home.

“This is a marigold.”

One day, the war began. It spread slowly, so the fear crawled from country to country, home to home. Brothers and uncles began to disappear from the dinner table and stood at the front lines of a war they did not start. One day, I went home and there was no more garden. There was no more mother, no more dog, no more faith that someone above actually looked after their own. Faith doesn’t die when it’s crushed by mortar shells. It rots and grieves and stinks until you cut it out of your body.

“This is a rose.”

Chirrut’s fingers flutter over the petals. He may not know flowers, but he trusts his touch. “There’s something wrong with it.”

“Yes.”

It is old and tired. It does not know how to express itself because it thinks it is too old and too tired. It longs to be a color. It was cut from a stalk and moved thousands of miles away with many other roses. And it tries to make its own roots in this new town. Sometimes, it feels at home. Sometimes, it remembers that it is merely a decoration with a short lifespan. None of the customers will ever see this singular rose, because they are much more interested in the young, colorful bouquets. This rose was found lying behind a vase until it was asked to tell a story.

“I hesitate to tell you because of what you may think. That I am fragile. Aged by a war.”

“Baze,” Chrirut says softly, and reaches out with a hand. He touches Baze’s cheek gently. “We all have been.”

He almost caves into the touch. Almost. Baze pulls back and takes Chirrut’s hand, returning it to the other. He wraps Chirrut’s fingers around the three flowers. “Keep my story. It will last as long as it is needed, even after they are wilted and dead.”

The blind man sits still, expressionless. And then Chirrut says, “You once said that the color of roses have different meanings. You are giving me this rose. What color is this?”

“What color do you want it to be?”

“Will it matter to a blind man?”

Baze smiles. “Perhaps not. But tell me anyways. What story do you want this rose to tell?”

“Well, it already tells your story, Baze.” Chirrut’s fingers find the rose. “Riddled with thorns.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ivies** : dependence, faithfulness 
> 
> _jian dui_ : a Chinese dessert, fried glutinous rice coated in sesame seeds and a red bean paste


	5. dandelions

When he opens shop and sits with breakfast in his lap, Baze notices that there are not as many students going to the campus on the Monday morning. He feels an inkling of concern, but it dissolves at the sight of Chirrut tapping his way past. Today is different, in many ways. Instead of a dog trotting by him, there is a young Chinese girl with long plaited hair clutching his hand.

“Hi,” says Chirrut. “This is-”

“Uncle Baze!” the little girl roars and lunges for the flower shop owner. She weighs less than eighty pounds, but she launches herself with a devilish fury. Baze, laughing, picks her up and swings her around. “Uncle Baze, I got your flowers!”

“Oh, did you?” he asks amusedly.

“Yep!”

“ _ I _ sent those flowers,” Chirrut interrupts. He’s in a white and gray sweater today. He leans forward on his white cane and remarks, “I figure you’re acquainted with Tanith.”

Baze chuckles. “Yes. Her mother helped me settle in the town. I see Tanith and her mother walking on the weekends. And sometimes I deliver flowers myself.” Baze sets her down and she races off, chasing imaginary foes. “Are you babysitting?”

“What do you think?” Chirrut laughs.

“What about the dog?”

“Refused to go out for a walk. So I turned on the television and left it on for her.” He shrugs. “Tanith kept asking about the flowers so I thought I’d take her here.” Chirrut turns slightly to the sound of the little girl’s running feet, and says, “Do you want to go inside Uncle Baze’s shop?”

Tanith sprints as fast as she can back to them, but Baze catches her before she enters the shop. “Hey, hey, be careful. These vases can fall and break. Hold Uncle Chirrut’s hand.” She agrees readily. Then she pokes at Baze’s thick hair and asks if she can braid it. “Sure, but later.”

A couple of customers file in moments afterwards and Baze must switch to the ritual of greeting, complimenting, and selling to his potential clients. They are particularly entranced by a sightly, young orchid, and make the purchase. Baze offers them a couple of carnations in addition and they exit, smiling.

He watches Chirrut and Tanith interact with each other. They have the relationship where their energy and enthusiasm syncs with the other; it’s amusing to see. Tanith pulls at Chirrut’s hand and talks about a large, yellow and black flower with a bristly face. He sets his cane down and kneels down. “I think what you’re describing is a sunflower,” says Chirrut, tilting his head. “Are its petals soft?”

“Yes,” she giggles.

“Show me.”

The eight year old takes Chirrut’s hand and places it against the sunflower. He seeks the touch like a lifeline, and is entranced by the texture. Baze feels a warmth rush into his cheeks. He’s falling in love with Chirrut. How else to explain a fixated gaze on Chirrut’s hands or the desire to hold him close?

Chirrut pulls away from the flower and shows the flat of his palm to Tanith. “Can you draw the flower on my hand?” She draws it, looping her finger against the lines of his hand, talking about how her mother once ordered sunflowers and they sat in the living room for almost a week before wilting. “Is that your favorite flower?”

“No,” she says, and then looks around the shop. “Mine’s on the top shelf.” Without prompting, Tanith begins to draw the heart-shaped petals on his palm.

“Those are primrose,” Baze interjects. “You can eat them, but they would taste very-”

He stops. Chirrut notes this and stands, reaching for his walking stick. “What is it, Baze?” He says this in Mandarin, perhaps because Tanith only understands Cantonese.

“The fanatics,” Baze tells him softly. “They’re standing outside.”

Chirrut doesn’t understand the word ‘fanatic’ in this dialect, but understands the urgency and restrained anger in his voice. He whispers to Tanith to walk towards Uncle Baze, and Baze ushers them behind the counter. Baze begins to move towards the door and Chirrut grabs his sleeve. “Wait.”

“I’m just going to see what they want,” he tells him.

“ _ Wait, _ ” Chirrut repeats, his voice on the brink of a tone Baze has never heard before: of annoyance, of choler, of fear, wrapped into that one word. “I want to go with you.”

“You need to stay with Tanith,” Baze growls.

Chirrut’s grip tightens at his voice.

There is sharp, violent knocking on the windows of the flower shop. Baze turns and sees the fanatics, the bastards, laughing and fooling around. Some of them are yelling, but the words are muffled by the walls. The emblems on their arms are unmistakable; they are minions of a greater threat. Baze slips out of Chirrut’s hold and heads out.

“What do you want?” he asks them crossly, keeping one foot inside of the store.

One of them snorts. “Just doing rounds.”

“Get out of here.”

“Ooh, are you like the students? Huh, old man?”

Baze bristles. He steps out of the store. “ _ Go. _ ” 

The loudmouth tries to keep talking, but his friends eventually drag him away. Dirty looks are exchanged the entire time, and they disappear down the block to terrorize some other people. Baze keeps watch for another minute and then returns to the store. He sees Chirrut trying to distract Tanith with stickers they found behind the cash register, but Chirrut looks up when he hears Baze enter. He grips his white cane and starts towards Baze.

Baze traps Chirrut, settling his hands on the blind man’s shoulders, and listens to Chirrut mutter his concern and disappointment. “It’s okay, Chirrut,” Baze says soothingly.

“It’s really not,” Chirrut shoots back. “You should’ve let me come with you.”

“It’s okay. I promise, if they ever show up again, you can deal with them. They’ll be especially terrified of a blind guy.” Baze pats his shoulders again. His gaze travels to the little girl. “Take Tanith home. Just in case.”

“Can I come back?” asks Chirrut. “I don’t mind the walk.”

“If you want to.”

“Of course I want to.” There is a brief, unbridled tension between them. Baze dares to think: Chirrut is also falling in love.  _ What an arrogant thought. _

Tanith comes running over and slips between the two. She has animal stickers and gold stars plastered up and down her arms. “Uncle Baze,” she chirps, and slaps his apron.

“Ow,” says Baze.

“Have a sticker.”

It’s a small, quarter-sized, pink and silver heart. Baze readjusts it so it sits atop of his heartbeat, and smiles at Tanith. “Thank you, dear.” He quickly collects primrose and sunflowers into a bouquet, wraps them in tissue, and gives them to her. Baze also takes out a red packet with golden Chinese characters from his apron and Tanith gleefully takes it, as tradition. “Happy New Year. For you and your mother.”

“Thank you, Uncle Baze!” Tanith, oblivious to the fanatics, the dangerous effects of war, pulls Chirrut outside and homeward. Baze waves, but only Tanith sees.

It is only much later in the day when Chirrut reappears and the sun begins its descent to the horizon,. The dog is with him, and she seems calm, even when greeting Baze. “Tanith really loves your shop,” Chirrut tells him and sits on the bench. Baze mimics him.

“She's a cute kid.”

They sit silently, occasionally petting Chirrut’s dog when she demands attention. Sometimes their hands brush against each other, but nothing happens. Neither draws away, but at the same time, they don't clasp hands and answer the unnamed suspense between them. It's clearly personal; there's no denying it. Whether it devolves into something romantic will be up to their willingness to communicate.

“I moved here about two years ago,” says Chirrut, turning slightly to Baze. “But I only learn about these terrorizing characters recently.”

“They have been like ghosts,” Baze replies. “Appearing when disturbed. When their reign of war faces the smallest bit of resistance. The ones that stalk the town, they don’t care about finding a new home. Their method is to terrorize and scare and control others. ”

“It is hard to fight,” Chirrut says softly.

“It is.”

Chirrut smiles slightly. “Let’s keep resisting, shall we?”

“Yep.” They sit, quietly, again. Chirrut’s dog perks her ears and sits up and Chirrut looks towards oncoming footsteps. They see Jyn and Cassian running towards the shop. They don’t dress in their usual attire; instead, they are cloaked in dark colors. They look as if they’re escaping someone. “What’s the matter?” Baze shouts.

They screech to a stop outside of the flower shop. “No matter,” Jyn says, gulping for breath. She pats the dog’s head and blows a kiss at her. “We’re meeting a friend here. Is that okay?”

“As long as they’re not bringing trouble,” Baze rumbles, and relaxes back into his seat. He hears Chirrut chuckle.

A few minutes passes and their friend appears, holding a brand latte, looking quite confused and bewildered. This is a new face to Baze: dark skinned, large eyes hiding behind thick glasses, curly hair, and a great smile. Cassian embraces him warmly. “Bodhi,” he grins, “Meet Baze and Chirrut. And Chirrut’s dog.”

“Hi,” the stranger says. “Bodhi Rook.” He wraps his fingers around the drink nervously. His glasses keep slipping down his nose. “I study at the college. Uh, engineering. Aeronautics. Flying and stuff. I also work at the coffee shop down the street.” He seems very anxious.

“Tell us what you know,” Jyn urges him. Noting his glances at Baze and Chirrut, she adds, “It’s okay to talk. I trust them.”

Now he unleashes a torrent of information in a hushed tone. The coffee shop he works at has ties with the fanatics -  _ the fascists _ , Bodhi hisses, and Baze adds this word to his vocabulary- and he says that he has a way to intercept the intel, decipher it, relay it to Jyn and Cassian, and then return it as if he never found them. He has only been able to tell them now because there has been news of a weapon, a strategy, or a device that they plan on executing in the near future.

This is how the town will respond to the fear. Jyn and Cassian, with this information, can rally the people, take to the streets, and stop the terrorists from taking over the town.  _ Violence is imminent, _ Bodhi says, words coming faster and faster until they almost slur.  _ You must stop them. You must do something. Your father- _

_ What about my father? _ Jyn whispers incredulously.

Bodhi blinks.  _ It was your father who taught me how to intercept their information. See, they send in people and then- _

But then Jyn is hugging Bodhi, and Cassian is there, smiling to hide his surprise.  _ But you can’t talk to him about this, _ Bodhi says quickly.  _ If they find out that he’s the one who released this information, all will be for naught. And I have no idea what could happen to him. _ This means Jyn must continue to pretend to hate her father, which will be harder than actually disliking him. No one but those present will know.

Their conversation dissolves after the revelation of Jyn’s father trying to dissemble the war from the inside, and Baze returns to his shop to count inventory and collect his papers. He peels the heart sticker from his apron and puts it on his bag. The jade vases go back inside. He gives away leftover tulips to the students. Bodhi thanks Baze profusely: “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten flowers,” he says honestly. This then prompts Jyn and Cassian to give their own tulips to Bodhi, but he refuses and refuses.

Baze flips over the OPEN sign, brings down the garage doors, and locks them. He shoulders his duffle bag and Chirrut stands, stretching his arms and legs. “Uh, Chirrut,” Bodhi says nervously, and the blind man nods at him. “Is your dog currently in service?”

“No, no, she’s not a service dog,” says Chirrut.

“Can I- Can I just pet her for a bit?”

“Sure.”

Bodhi puts aside the tulips and his empty cup and kneels. The dog, maybe sensing his nervousness or eager hands, bundles into his arms and licks his chin. All of the stress seems to melt out of Bodhi. He hugs her and scratches her ears and whispers to her in a language Baze does not recognize. It lasts for a minute, and then he stands. There are bits of black and tan dog hair stuck to his sweater, but he does not notice or mind. He just thanks Chirrut.

“It’s not a problem. You’re doing a good thing, young man.” Chirrut tells him. Bodhi flushes, and stammers another ‘thank you’. He smiles. It is a smile that Chirrut will never see, but maybe he can hear it in their voices. “Good night, everyone.” The students give a chorus of goodbyes and go their own way.

Baze and Chirrut and the dog head back to their homes. This walk, Baze thinks, was not arranged. It just happened. While this is not the first time Baze has walked back to the city with a companion, this is the first time with Chirrut, and that was something to truly treasure. Night falls around them. They talk little.

They reach a fork in the road that will take Baze downtown and Chirrut uptown. In reality, they live about a ten minutes walk from each other. Chirrut’s cane taps playfully against Baze’s shoe, and the blind man wishes him a goodbye. “Good night, Chirrut,” Baze replies softly. And then they separate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **dandelions** : overcoming hardship
> 
> \---  
> Woa-oh, we're halfway there!  
> Thank you all for your comments - I'm working on reading and replying to them :)


	6. cypress

A month passes.

Seeing Chirrut becomes a part of Baze’s schedule; it becomes neither boring nor eventful. The blind man has just successfully integrated himself into Baze’s life, without either of them realizing or caring how much impact it would have on their relationship. Baze frowns, thinking about this as he ties together stalks of hollyhocks. What relationship?

Their relationship consisted of sitting on the bench outside and eating lunch, and that was only on Fridays. Chirrut walked past the flower shop on four of the seven days of the week, most of the time with his dog. Sometimes Tanith visits, but that happens less and less with the rising violence on the university campus. Information was mysteriously leaked that the fascists were planning a parade of supremacy and a reign of fear, and Cassian led an expedition on the identities of these terrorists.

Jyn vists Baze to tell him about the hunt. “Terrorists. They try to rule like an empire, with authority that they grant themselves. Fascists, Nazis: one and the same. They keep trying to justifying their crimes. Could I have some tulips?” He hands them over. “Thank you. Bodhi was in love with your flowers and now I find it my mission to slip some to him whenever I pass by.”

“A witch hunt,” Baze remarks. “In this day and age.”

“You should see Cassian,” Jyn says, smile slipping from her face. “He’s mad. The insane and angry kind of mad. We finally have some intel and we have to work to fight against them.”

Baze has neglected to tell Jyn or Cassian about the incident that happened before. He has experienced no other disturbances, and thinks it an isolated event. “Be safe, Jyn,” he tells her. She thanks him and leaves. When Chirrut arrives later that day for their routine luncheon, he is not quite as receiving to the news of Cassian’s inquisition.

“It’s a literal persecution,” Chirrut exclaims. He waves around a tupperware of fried rice which Baze pries from his hands before it goes flying across the street.

“They're trying to scare them back into hiding,” says Baze. “And they've done their share of horrors.”

“But-” Chirrut stops. And sighs. “I wish I could fight this. But every argument I think of always has a counter. This sounds justified, but it feels-” he touches his chest. “-unnerving.”

“I know.”

They sit and eat the fried rice Chirrut had bought. It tastes like home. Whether home was the place before the war in Baze’s memories, or here with Chirrut, he does not know. Maybe it is both.

Talk travels to the recently imposed curfew on the town. Set at one in the morning, it has good intentions to prevent crime and fights, but there's no denying how the town feels trapped within the confines of their home. Chirrut changes the subject. “How do you feel, Baze?”

He snaps the tupperware lid shut. “What do you mean?”

“About me being here. Do I intrude on your time?”

“No.”

This does not appear to be the answer Chirrut has been looking for. But he just says, “All right.”

Silence.

“I like having you around,” Baze says. That’s an understatement. Baze is falling deeply in love with this blind man.

“And the dog?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Excellent.” Chirrut clears his throat, “Can you watch over her for a couple of hours on Saturday?”

Baze jerks in his seat. “What?”

“I have to greet some people from out of town but I also needed to take her to the clinic. If I could bring her here right after the appointment, I could make my way to the meeting, and return to collect her.” Chirrut blinks his sightless gaze. “She only needs to stay for two or three hours. She can stay outside, as long as she has water.”

Baze has no excuse. He could outright refuse but he secretly likes having the dog around. Seeing her goofy grin cheers him up. “All right,” he huffs. Chirrut beams.

As before, the dog proves beneficial for Baze’s business. After selling more than half his bouquets and even some flower vases, Baze leans against the door jamb and scratches the dog’s head. “You did good.” He tells her. “Fourth, right?”

She doesn't acknowledge the name.

“Chirrut was right. You need another name.” The dog tries to push past him and go into the store. “No. You make a mess. Stay. Stay there.” Baze pats her one more time and then closes the door. He keeps an eye on her through the windowed door, and the people that pass by. 

Chirrut is expected to return in about an hour. Baze absently wonders if he should make a bouquet for him, one that's filled with textures and aromas, when the door opens and he resumes business. A tall woman with a rather nondescript face walks in through the front; she dresses in white. “Excuse me,” she asks Baze, English accent audible. Her eyes scan his broad figure, creased apron, and long locks of hair. His soft eyes. “What kind of flowers do you have?”

“Do you have any colors in mind?” he asks, gesturing to the walls. “Red flowers, yellow flowers. Or multicolored?” She doesn’t seem to be paying attention, as she gently rubs a random flower’s malleable leaf between her fingers. “Or flowers with meanings?”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she remarks, still not looking at him. “I didn’t know flowers could have meaning.”

Baze shrugs. “Everything, to some people, has a meaning.”

He hears some laughing from outside. Baze doesn’t have a first thought, a first assumption, but when he sees the familiar figures and bandanas, dread settles and consumes. She is clearly one of the fascists. It nearly overwhelms him, and he looks at this woman, now dreading the fact that he invited this warmonger into his shop, his life.

He has had enough war.

But now thoughts spring away from his shop, his life, and to the leashed dog outside. Baze can’t see her, but he sees the fanatics laughing and pointing at something. It  _ must  _ be the dog. It  _ must  _ be Chirrut’s shepherd. Baze surges past the woman, but she catches his elbow. He’s too surprised to shake her off.

“I like this flower,” she says calmly, tilting her head at the flower she’d been preening. Her words are coated with honey. Sticky. Hard to wash away. “It’s a tulip. Yes, I rather like tulips.” A face flashes in Baze’s mind. And he has too many thoughts. The thing that snaps him back into action is the dog’s barking. He reacts.

The flower shop owner takes the woman by the arm and pushes her out of the store. The four other fanatics catch her before she falls over; one of them shouts at Baze, “Hey there, old man! Remember me?” Baze ignores him completely and kneels down to untie the dog leash. Chirrut’s dog squirms and whines, relieved he’s here. “Don’t worry,” says the fascist. “We didn’t hurt that  _ bitch _ .”

Baze stands up. He’s actually shaking with rage. But without hesitation, he pushes the shop door open and urges the dog to go inside. Breaking a rule, ignoring the sign that sat on the window for the last decade. In her haste, the dog accidentally turns around too fast and knocks over a transparent vase on the floor. It topples and spills water, but there’s no other damage.

He locks the garage doors.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, kneeling and ruffling the shepherd’s fur. She still cries, still afraid, and tries to crawl into his arms. Both of them are startled by the sound of shattering glass. They’re throwing stones. Glass and shouted expletives and threats shower them. Baze immediately stands and leads the dog behind the counter. Together, they sit on the floor and wait for the noises to stop.

Terrible, terrible things are being said. Baze wonders if he can forget the English language, to return to Mandarin, and he silently sings school children's’ poems.  _ Bà ba bú zài jiā, Dad is not at home.  _ Chirrut’s dog whines, and so he whispers the songs to her. Even though she doesn’t understand his dialect, this is something, anything to distract from the noise. He hates hiding. It makes him feel like a small child again. He holds the shepherd tightly in his arms and buries his face in her black and tan hair.

Eventually, his poems turn into muffled noises. Sobs.

Eventually, it all stops.

Baze raises his head. He hates the wetness on his face. The dog licks his cheeks. Baze stands, gripping her leash tightly, and sees how glass coats the ground like snow on mountains. He has to tie her to a cabinet handle, and tells her to stay.

Slowly, agonizingly, he makes his way to the front of the shop. Every time he steps on glass, it sings, cheerily seranading the hatred of these terrorists. Things could be worse. He could be dead. The dog could be dead. He clings to that idea, that he should be thankful that he’s not dead. Baze unlocks the doors and steps outside. He sees the bench has a gaping hole where someone stomped on the seat until the wood splintered and crumbled. He sees his jade vases scattered and splintered to fragments. The flowers they held are trampled and spit on. Roses, lilies, lavenders, magnolias, peonies. No discrimination. No way to save these flowers.

A figure appears at the top of the hill. Baze panics; he thinks it’s Chirrut. But no, it’s Bodhi.

“Baze, Baze,” the young man wheezes, stopping short when he sees the destruction. “Oh no…”

“They found out.” Baze guesses dully.

“No,” he says, looking around, and pulling Baze inside of the shop to speak privately. As privately as possible with broken windows. “No, but they were suspicious. They don’t trust anyone. They… oh god, this is all my fault.”

“Bodhi, go home.”

“But-”

“Go home.”

His eyes frantically scan the broken glass and Chirrut’s dog in the back, who begins to whine. “This is my fault.”

“You need to go home.” Baze gently pushes Bodhi back outside. “Go find Jyn and Cassian. Keep fighting with them.” Bodhi still seems apprehensive; he looks ready to tear his hair out. Baze tries something. “Bodhi, promise me something.”

“What? Anything.”

“Don’t let this happen again.”

Bodhi breathes in deeply. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Baze starts to clean up. Large, massless garbage bags that he tearfully fills with his broken jade vases. They were nothing spectacular, bought from a flea market on a whim, but they were part of his routine. To place outside every morning, to put away every evening. It would be impractical to try and glue the pieces back together. It is harder to pick up the flowers, which leave colored stains against the ground. But Baze does so, and imagines that these people had to have such poisoned minds that they destroyed beauty for war.

He had just picked up a broom and dustpan when Chirrut makes his appearance. “Hey,” he says, face flushed from walking and smiling from his meeting. “How are things?”

Baze tries to keep his voice level. “I broke a couple of glass vases. Uh, don’t come any closer. I’ll get your dog.”

“She’s inside the shop?” Chirrut asks, surprised.

He chooses not to answer. He makes his way back to Chirrut’s dog, and scoops her up in his arms. Baze carries her over the glass, uncomfortably glad that Chirrut couldn’t see the mess and destruction, and places her well beyond the shards.

“That sounds like a lot of broken vases,” Chirrut remarks. He takes the leash back. “I hope she’s been good.”

“Yeah,” Baze swallows. “She’s a good girl.” He looks at his broken flower shop. “I need to clean up and then close for the night. I’ll see you tomorrow, Chirrut.”

The blind man is, again, taken by surprise. Chirrut had hoped to linger for a while. “Oh, all right. Is there anything I can do to help?” When he doesn’t answer immediately, Chirrut steps towards Baze. Concern tinges his voice. The atmosphere feels wrong, too tense, too violent, even. “Baze, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing-”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing-”

“Feel?”

“I feel that you’re not well.” Chirrut finds Baze’s shoulder and tightens his grip. “I don’t need eyes to know that something’s wrong. Did something else happen?”

Baze reminds himself: _ If he wants Chirrut to stay, with him, they cannot keep their pasts secrets. _ It doesn’t matter if the past was an hour ago, or thirty years ago. They are old and have had their share of the world. Secrets are nothing new; merely frustrating. One can hear the frustration in Chirrut’s words.

“Tell me. Please.”

So what does Baze do? He takes Chirrut’s chin and knocks foreheads with him. Baze closes his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me?” Chirrut asks softly. “Or do I have to wait for another three flowers?”

“I will tell you,” Baze murmurs. He groans. “But another time… when it’s day… I’m too tired right now.”

He pulls away. No, there is no kiss. No, it does not feel right. Not now. Not yet. At least Baze allows himself a semblance of a ‘yet’; a future possibility. He keeps delaying these things, delaying the truth, a kiss, a chance to admit that,  _ yes _ , they mean more together.

Chirrut barely moves, his clouded eyes betraying his wishes to see Baze’s expression, to see the broken glass, to just _ see _ . “Baze…”

“Good night, Chirrut,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cypress : despair**


	7. wormwood

The next morning, the young individual who delivers flowers arrives on time. Baze stands, arms folded across his chest, and nods courteously as the truck pulls up on the tarmac. “Good morning, Mister Malbus,” says the flower man, hopping out of the driver's seat, and heads to the unlock the back. He is sprightly and moves with energy. “How was your day yesterday?”

“Well-” Baze hesitates.

The man turns around and sees the hastily taped tarps over the broken windows. He sees the broken bench, which needs to be replaced by civil workers later today. He sees the flower shop owner’s tired, sad face. His jaw drops. “What happened?”

“Trouble in the neighborhood,” Baze says sourly. “Some broken windows and vases. Nothing to worry about.” He tries to smile.

Baze doesn’t understand that the truck driver is doing. The young man (older than the lurking college students, but still decades younger than Baze) digs into his jean and jacket pockets for his phone, and tells him, “I know someone who does window work. She repairs windows. She's a good friend, and she doesn't charge much. I'll text you the number.”

“Thank you.”

The young man is not finished. He also sees the large garbage bags stuffed with the broken glass and jade vases. Last night, Baze had been too drained to bother carrying them down the street to the dumpster. He offers, “I'll take those away. It’s on my way.” Baze begins to refuse. “Please, Mister Malbus. You must have a lot on your mind.”

It's true. So they make the exchange. Baze takes the flowers and his friend takes the bags, and they shake hands. “Thank you.”

“See you tomorrow.”

And so life resumes its cycle, albeit nervously. Baze arranges his bouquets while he's on hold with city officials to talk about the broken bench. It's technically government property, and Baze is relieved when he learns that the bench will be replaced by Monday. Another call is made, this time to the window installer, and she agrees to swing by this afternoon to make some measurements.

In the meantime, Baze sells his flowers and monotonously repeats his explanation for the recent chaos.  _ Trouble in the neighborhood. _ Interesting how he can condense his fear and his rubble into a sentence. Baze ends up selling about half of his flowers and bouquets before lunchtime. He makes a note in his notebook to request for more sunflowers, violets, orchids, tulips-

His pen falters. Tulips. No matter what color a tulip was, it always defined love. Undying. Hopeless. Forever. Baze can’t blame Bodhi Rook for yesterday’s incident. He knows he cannot blame anyone but the people who threw the rocks and tried to destroy his spirits and flower shop. He finishes the list of flowers.

Sometime later in the day, Cassian visits. He leans against the counter as Baze meets with some clients. Out of the corner of Baze’s eye, he sees him fidget and bite his lip. Cassian is clearly upset. It is unusual to see the charismatic student act like this. When the customers leave, Baze turns to him and asks, “Are you here to buy flowers?”

Cassian pauses. “Any recommendations?” he asks, voice cracking.

“Not really.” Baze sits behind the counter. “What are you doing here, Cassian?”

He cards a hand through his messy hair. Baze notices the dark shadows under his eyes. Have they been there for long? “Bodhi told me what happened. I'm sorry. He told me what you said. So. We're keeping watch. Making rounds. Especially in this area.” Cassian leans on the counter, fingers gripping the scarred counter tightly.

Baze asks a question. “Is Bodhi okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s good. We’re being a lot more careful about the, uh, flowers.” Cassian’s gaze drifts around the shop. There’s something ethereal about how the light reflects off the remaining glass windows and paints rainbows on the wall, the petals, and on their skins. Cassian, for the first time, appreciates the dark scent of earth that fills the store. “Flowers. I never imagined that they’d bring trouble.”

The flower shop owner snorts with laughter. “Neither did I.”

They sit like that for a while. An occasional conversation surfaces. Cassian asks how many years has Baze owned the shop. Baze responds, saying he doesn’t really remember or care. Baze murmurs,  _ Don’t you have class? _ Cassian replies,  _ It’s Sunday. _

Right. It’s Sunday. Chirrut usually walks by on Sundays, but there is no sign of the blind man by the time Cassian wishes a goodbye (with an armful of multicolored carnations) or when the window repairer drops by. She and Baze do small talk, and she expresses her sympathy for his troubles. She assures him that the windows can be easily and cheaply replaced.  _ I can have them by this coming Tuesday, _ she tells him.  _ Great, _ says Baze.

So life and time goes on.

Baze closes the shop early around five. He makes his way home, trying to imagine that he’d run into Chirrut and his dog. He’d apologize for his behavior and tell him the whole story. Somehow, even in his thoughts, he chokes on the idea of admitting the truth. Why was he so afraid of telling Chirrut? The man would find out, sooner or later. Talk of the flower shop’s destruction was sure to spread.

Baze finds himself at the fork that takes him downtown, to his apartment. But he looks at the road that would take him uptown, to Chirrut’s place. He extinguishes the thought immediately. He doesn’t even know Chirrut’s address (although he could ask around, or ask Tanith’s mother, he rebukes).

He tightens his hold on his duffle bag. Stop. It would be irresponsible. Inconceivable. What would you even say to him, if you couldn’t at least tell him the truth?

The truth: The flower shop was partially destroyed by a couple of of those fascists.

The short truth: Trouble in the neighborhood.

Baze’s truth: He let his shop be destroyed.

The old man takes a step backwards, away from the fork, from the path that would take him to Chirrut. Yes, there’s the truth. Yes, here’s the problem. The fascists might have started the chaos, but he  _ let _ his shop be destroyed. Baze felt the thoughts rattle around his head with nothing to soften the realization.

He  _ cowered _ in the shop.

He  _ listened _ to them destroy his vases.

This idea, his truth, eats away at him the following day. It turns him listless. He wakes up and walks to work and unlocks the garage doors. He sees the broken windows. He makes the bouquets, eats his breakfast, and welcomes the first wave of customers. If people notice a change in his demeanor, they don’t say anything. It is difficult already to distinguish Baze’s emotions; he’s too skilled at disguising them. Noon passes by, and Baze eats lunch. He sells some more flowers. Answers a couple of calls. Evening falls. And the day is over.

And this happens again and again. His life is interrupted with brief flashes of positivity, such as the windows and bench being replaced. They don’t feel the same, but they fix the kind of ‘broken’ atmosphere that had lingered recently. Time passes and Baze slowly recovers from the depressive episode. He tries to tell himself that it’s not his fault. It’s hard to accept that as the new truth.

But something is still missing.

When the weekend rolls in, Baze painfully realizes that Chirrut has been absent for a whole week.

_ This is it, _ he blearily thinks as the Saturday sunset begins its descent.  _ I’ve chased away the blind man, the one who could not stop smiling or laughing or coming around with that silly dog of his. I’ve somehow scared him away. And given Chirrut’s personality, that is quite a feat. _ Baze sees a couple of marigolds sitting on a shelf, soaking up the last dregs of sunlight, and he gets an idea. He collects flowers and begins to make a bouquet for Chirrut. It is a bouquet, of course, that apologizes. He sets it next to the cash register to remind himself, that he can deliver it to Chirrut personally when the shop closes.

Baze misses his laughs, his voice, his callused hands. He misses all of Chirrut.

He checks his watch. About an hour until closing times.

Tonight. He will walk uptown and find Chirrut and apologize to him.   
  


Somewhere uptown is Chirrut’s apartment. His German Shepherd rests in front of television playing some soap drama; her amber eyes follow the moving figures and her ears twitch at the soft dialogue. She hears familiar footsteps in the hallway and sits up. The door opens and the man with the sightless gaze, the one who adopted her, enters. He seems out of breath. Unhappy, but also satisfied. And the stick that he carries, the one that now bears recent marks of her teething adventures, is broken into two.

The dog lets out a welcoming whine. He lets out a small, “Hello” which prompts her to go over and greet him. But he seems distracted, as he ignores her and heads towards the room with the large bed. The dog trails after him. Within the room, he opens a closet and searches with his touch and memory. He finally pulls out a very, very familiar item and her tail wags.

“Come here, Fourth,” the man with the sightless gaze says, and kneels. She pushes her head into the harness and stands perfectly still as he fumbles with the straps. This is the first time he’s using this. “I need you to lead me tonight, okay?” He ruffles her fur. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **wormwood : absence**
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
> So I'm trying to schedule how to release the last two chapters and then likely an epilogue with some notes. I'll probably upload Chapters 8 and 9 sometime this and next week. Then I'll let the story sit for a week and then go back and polish everything up. I might revisit some previous chapters to work on improving word choice, sentence structure, etc. I might have to change the story title too; "young and beautiful" isn't sitting right with me. When I'm done with all of that behind the scenes schmuck, I'll publish Chapter 10/Epilogue :)
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments - I'm reading all of them and it just makes my day so much happier.


	8. bamboo

The receipts are counted. The floor is swept. The vases are emptied, the leftover flowers are placed in storage, and Baze’s eyes fall upon Chirrut’s bouquet in the corner. He sighs and reaches for the flowers. Should he write a note? No, that’d be silly, unless it was in Braille. Perhaps Baze could read it aloud to him. Was Chirrut was even at his apartment tonight?

It’s a risk Baze will have to take. He begins to put on his jacket and glances at the newly paned windows. They look rather nice, and won’t need to be polished until- Baze takes a another look. Wait a minute. He abandons the jacket on the countertop and hurries to the door. Pushing it open, he sees familiar figures under the melancholy streetlamps. His heart aches at the sight of them.

“Chirrut,” he breathes, unmoving, afraid that they would disappear like an illusion if he moved.

His dog is wearing a harness, to which Chirrut clings, but the shepherd’s training appears to evaporate when she sees Baze. She bolts forwards eagerly and throws Chirrut off balance. Baze is barely in time to catch him before he trips. “Baze?” Chirrut mumbles, grabbing the taller man’s arms.

“It’s me,” Baze says, and gives a couple of soft, stern words to the dog. She stills. He turns back to Chirrut. “I was going to visit you. I wanted to apologize and tell you the truth and-”

“I’m sorry I ruined your plan,” Chirrut grinned weakly. “But I couldn’t wait to see you.”

And then Baze notices the scrapes and smeared blood on Chirrut’s knuckles. His trousers and shoes seem abraded. “You waited a whole week- Chirrut, what the hell happened? Did you get into a fight?”

“Uh,” Chirrut pauses to think. “Yes.”

Baze shakes his head. “Come inside the shop. I think I might have a first aid kit somewhere.” When Chirrut doesn’t let go of Baze, the flower shop owner shuffles his shoulders a bit. “Uh, where’s your cane?”

“I broke it over someone’s back. I should really try to find a more durable model.”

Baze lifts his eyes to the heavens. Was he joking or just delirious? “Okay. Well, just take my arm.” As they headed inside, Baze observed whether or not Chirrut was wounded anywhere else. But the man seemed perfectly fine. His back was straight, face serene, and the only signs that he’d been fighting was the knuckles and scuffed clothes.

Without an invitation, Chirrut’s dog follows them inside of the shop.

Baze sits Chirrut down at the counter, glances at the shepherd who lies down at his owner’s feet, and then closes the shop door. He finds the first aid kit in the supply cupboard and brushes off the dust. Opening it, he finds antiseptic wipes and a roll of gauze. “I don’t have the proper kind of bandages,” he tells Chirrut, “but at least we can stop the infection for now.”

Baze tears open the packets and wipes awkwardly at the bloody knuckles. The blind man doesn’t flinch, but he shakes his head slowly.

“You have amazing bedside manners,” Chirrut says dryly.

“Shut up,” Baze barks. He continues, but more gently. He tries not to aggravate the cut skin and wets them with a towel. Chirrut is the perfect patient; he sits stock still and does not react to any pain. Baze notes that the blind man’s cropped hair was starting to grow out; it hides the hairline scar that Baze noticed what feels like a very long time ago. He fixes his attention back on the scraped knuckles. “Do you want to tell me how this happened?” Baze asks quietly.

“Let’s talk about something else.” Chirrut says. He gestures to the dog at his feet. “Did you know that we got lost twice on the way here? I somehow ended up downtown in front of that fried rice restaurant.”

“Really?”

“I was not in the best state of mind, so I had to rely on her direction. I suppose she thinks her destiny is dining at a Chinese restaurant.”

“Remind me again why you decided to adopt this dog?” Baze asks, trying to hide the smile in his voice.

Chirrut chews his lip. “You know that she failed as a service dog. She didn’t pass the tests or something. I’m not surprised. But her owners couldn’t handle her. And I- I guess I just felt like I was ready to try and take care of a dog.”

“Maybe you should’ve started with a cat.”

“Maybe.” He pauses. “I should give a real name to my dog. I can’t keep calling her Fourth.” Baze glances over the counter to see if she even responded to the name. Nothing. “You see?” says Chirrut.

Baze tosses the wipes in the garbage and begins to unroll the gauze. “My dog was named, uh, after a flower.  _ Chá huā _ . I think they call it a camellia here.” He picks up Chirrut’s right hand and wraps the bandage around his palm and his knuckles, trying to cover up the scrapes. He is reminded of wrapping someone’s hands before a fight.

When Baze finishes with the right hand and starts for the left, Chirrut pulls away. “Wait.” Then he turns his palm over. “Draw it.”

“ _ Chá huā _ ?”

“Yes. The flower. What does it look like?”

Baze sets the bandage aside and grasps Chirrut’s wrist lightly. “Well,” he says, and tries to draw its large, oval shaped petals that overlap much like a rose’s does. He talks about how sometimes they look like they’ve been meticulously carved by an artist, instead of grown in someone’s garden. He says that his mother used to have a camellia bush that rarely bloomed. But she tended it and sang to it and when it finally did blossom, they were the loveliest camellias Baze had ever seen.

“That’s lovely,” Chirrut comments. “Do you have any here?”

“No, not usually.” Baze stops drawing. His hand relaxes against Chirrut’s, and tenderly, their fingers curl until they’re clinging to one another. Their hands feel perfect together. Perfect. It’s perfect. Baze thinks he might’ve stopped breathing. The blind man lets out a sigh.

“I am sorry that I did not visit this past week. After what happened… I felt like I had to do something.”

Baze feels his skin prickle. “You know about...”

“People wanted to speak, so I listened.” Chirrut’s hand holds him even tighter, if that was possible. “It is not your fault, Baze. I wish I could have been there with you.”

“You shouldn’t wish that,” he replies softly. “It was awful.”

Chirrut dips his head. “So I heard. I asked around. Who did it, where could I find these people, and I only found them tonight. I didn’t expect to take a whole week, but at least I found them.” Chirrut raises his bandaged right hand slightly. “And, uh, I fought them.”

Baze stares at him.

“I can  _ feel _ you staring,” Chirrut laughs. “I’m blind, yes. But I’m well versed in martial arts.” He collect himself, perhaps a little embarrassed that he dared boast about his superior fighting skills. Chirrut leans forwards and Baze is momentarily distracted by the glassy sheen in his eyes. “You’re an expert on the language of flowers, Baze, but what do you know of bamboo? They’re strong, supple. And what do they do in the wind?”

“They sway,” Baze stammers. “They do not break.”

“Right! They do not break.” The teasing tone in Chirrut’s voice fades. “They do not break with the wind. And when the wind pushes them far enough, but so far that they still do not break, they snap back. They spring back in the other direction with just as much force.”

“We cannot defeat the wind.”

“No, we cannot. But sometimes the wind quells and the bamboo shoots stand tall and strong. If the wind ever decides to stir up trouble, the plants are designed to respond, to sway, and to snap back.”

Slowly, slowly, Chirrut’s grip relaxes and his shoulders slouch. Baze lets his fingers brush against the inside of Chirrut’s wrist; there are old keloids that stretch towards the inside of his elbow that speak of the blind man’s darker times. He does not react. Chirrut has since acknowledged his past. Baze retreats, and starts to bandage the fresh wounds. Neither are satisfied by the way the gauze stops their skin from touching.

“Thank you,” Chirrut tells him.

“You’re welcome.” Baze meticulously replaces the unused materials back into the first-aid kit. “But you need to go and purchase some actual bandages. We can go to the pharmacy later. It’s late, and I don’t want you getting lost on the way.” This would be the obvious suggestion that they would leave the flower shop, buy the bandages, and then continue the story from there.

But instead, they keep sitting in Baze’s flower shop. Both men will not admit to the other, but they are tired. It is easier to sit here and talk. Chirrut reaches out with his right hand, and Baze takes it instinctively. “Let me feel your face,” he says.

Baze hopes that Chirrut is unable to feel the blush that heats up his cheeks and forehead. But Baze guides the bandaged hand to his face, and feels the callused, exposed fingers skitter along his chin. Chirrut exclaims, “You have a beard?” He continues, mapping out features on a face, and finds the bumpy scar at Baze’s left temple. “What’s this?”

Baze is staring at Chirrut. “I forget.”

“How do you forget? It’s quite a large scar, I’m surprised that-”

“You’re making me forget.” Baze wraps his fingers around Chirrut’s wrist and pulls his hand down to the counter. They are holding hands again.

Chirrut grins. “I’m honored.”

“Chirrut… you are not afraid that people will seek revenge against you?” asks Baze.

“No. They would have to first admit that they were outmatched by an old, blind man. And if they could wrap their small minds around that truth, then they will learn again and again, that I will not stop fighting.”

“I fear for you.”

“Don’t.” Chirrut folds his other hand on top of Baze’s, comforting him, wanting to refresh his memory of Baze’s skin again. Chirrut closes his eyes. “They will not bother you anymore,” Chirrut tells him in Mandarin, in the language that he did not grow up with, and the language of the man he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **bamboo : longevity, strength, grace**


	9. red roses

Baze loses himself in the blind man’s eyes. They are strikingly blue amidst the foggy sheen. He wonders if Chirrut knows that he stares, or if that’s the one thing Chirrut is unable to sense. A small smile pulls at Chirrut’s lips. All right, so maybe he knows. Chirrut fumbles around in his jeans pockets and then shows Baze the cinnabar tiger pendant that used to hang on his long cane. “I want you to have this,” he tells him.

Baze takes it from him. It is warm to the touch. “Why?”

“It’s a symbol of my faith. I have a feeling that I should give it to you.”

The flower shop owner looks at the gem, which looks minuscule in his large hands, and tucks it into his shirt pocket. “You and your feelings. Is it a god that speaks to you?”

Chirrut frowns. “Not really. No one whispers into my ear, but it’s as if my instincts and emotions are guided by something.”

“I think some people call that destiny.”

“That’s different. Would you call the belief in destiny a kind of faith?”

Baze leans back and clears his throat. “I don’t believe in faith. The religious kind of faith. I don’t want to.” He twists his fingers against Chirrut’s. “Though… I cannot deny that I don’t believe in the idea of destiny. Our lives, being shaped by an unseen, powerful force. We do not will good or bad events upon ourselves or others. They just happen.”

“I feel as if my faith allows me to change that. I  _ can  _ influence events. Not all, but some.” Chirrut shrugs. “Remember when I told you about how it saved me? I was ready to die. If that was my destiny, this force changed it. This force led me to the bastards who wrecked your shop and guided me home, to Fourth and to you.”

“If that is what you believe.”

“It is. And beliefs do change. Sometimes they fade. Sometimes they get warped. Sometimes they help us.” Chirrut squeezes Baze’s hand. “I know you say that you do not believe anymore, but sometimes I feel that you still do.”

“Huh. Maybe.” Baze lets out a heavy sigh, one that rumbles through his body. “I think I would rather have you.”

“Sorry. Chirrut and his faith comes as a package deal. Oh, and the dog, too.”

Baze laughs, long and loud. Chirrut drinks in the sound. “All right,” Baze says with a chuckle on his lips. His eyes fall on the German Shepherd who peacefully naps at their feet. “When you said beliefs change… that, I do agree with. Perhaps one day I will find a reason to believe again.”

“And if I am around for that moment,” Chirrut adds, “I will be the first to say ‘I told you so’.”

They bask in each other’s presence for a while, occasionally shifting the way they held hands. Baze gazes at Chirrut, trying to memorize every feature on his face as Chirrut closes his eyes slightly, thinking of something, or someone. Their peace is interrupted by Chirrut’s dog, who sits up and decides that she’s ready to go home.

Baze scratches her ears and admits, “It is getting late. Let’s go and find those bandages for your hands.” Chirrut agrees. He takes hold of the harness and the dog has the humor to carefully guide him through the shop. Baze grabs his bag and files, spots the bouquet by the register, and takes it with him. “Here,” he says, and pushes the flowers into Chirrut’s free hand. “I was going to give them to you.”

“Oh, lovely. What kind of flowers?”

“Uh, there are marigolds for grief. A yellow rose for apologizing. A couple of other flowers. I really wanted to apologize for my behavior last weekend. I was… embarrassed.” Baze gestures to his dog, remembers that Chirrut couldn’t see, and says, “And I’m sorry for putting Fourth in danger.”

“None of it is your fault,” Chirrut says firmly, and pokes Baze with the bouquet. Pollen clings to his shirt. “Thank you for the lovely flowers. You have nothing to apologize for, but if it makes you feel better, I forgive you.”

Baze feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Chirrut is here. The shop is repaired. Everything feels right again. Baze notes how Chirrut holds the bouquet in his bandaged hands. It’s a contrast of violence and peace, but at the same time, they compliment each other. Different than the destruction of a flower shop. Much different.

“Are you ready to leave?” Chirrut asks him.

“Almost.” Baze is about to lock the door when he pauses, removes the “No Dogs Allowed” sign, and tucks it under his arm. Then he finishes locking the door and garage doors. “I took down the sign. I guess your dog can come in anytime.”

Chirrut smiles. “Beliefs do change.”

“Yeah. Dogs are allowed inside flower shops, old men can find love-” Baze stammers to a stop.

“You’re afraid of being in love?”

“I just- I didn’t feel that-” he takes a deep, deep breath. “I would have loved to grow up with you. To learn together, to change together, and to change in different ways. There is still so much about you that I don’t know.” 

“We will have plenty of time to share our pasts.”

_ Share our pasts.  _ Tell them like stories, not admittance of guilt or sorrow. That is what these two old men can do. What they will do.

Chirrut’s dog, sensing or wanting the end of this conversation, whines and tries to walk ahead. “Shh, calm down. Baze? You good to go?”

“Hold on.”

Before they head back to the city, to their lives, to building a life together, Baze draws Chirrut near and sets their foreheads together again. Baze’s hand presses against the back of Chirrut’s bristly hair. Something dances along his cheeks, and he realizes that it’s Chirrut’s eyelashes. The blind man murmurs, “I have never wished so much to see you. But I think… I think I can be content. Here. Now.”

Baze swallows. “I-” he hesitates. He doesn’t want to mess this up. It’s so simple. Only a fool could ruin this moment. He wanted to confess his feelings, his love, but it does not come naturally.

He sees Chirrut’s grin widen. “I’m waiting,” Chirrut teases him.

It must take courage to love someone. And so Baze, gingerly, kisses him. Unhurriedly, as if these old men had all the time in the world. With the way they lingered on the street, Chirrut in Baze’s arms and the scent of flowers drifting all around them, it certainly felt like so. They pull away from each other.

“The rose,” Baze says. “Do you remember the rose that I gave you, the one that told my story?”

“Riddled with thorns,” Chirrut echoes the memory.

“You asked me what color it was. It was red, Chirrut. It’s the color of the Chinese lanterns that hang on the street lamps. It’s the color of the red packets we would give to children on New Year. It’s the color of the sunset. Sometimes you wear red. Your hands were red and bleeding when I saw you tonight, you dumb fool, because you decided to go and fight. It’s the color of Valentine’s Day. And that rose I gave you was faded and old, but it was red. You give red… you give red roses to people you love.”

Baze is smiling. He hates to admit: he can be a real ol’ romantic at certain times. “Well, Mister Malbus,” Chirrut breathes, chuckling. There is so much happiness in this man’s body. It makes both of them feel so much younger. “I’d like to put in an order for half a dozen red roses.”

“Right away.” Baze kisses him again, just as gently as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **red roses: true love**
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
> Chapter 10 will be posted next week after I've let the piece sit and then do a final revision :)


	10. arbutus

While it feels as if miracles are in motion, many things remain the same. The war still rages, the campus runs on political stances, and the flower shop maintains its regular hours. Sometimes a story begins with war, and ends without a peace. Some people live as such. But for Baze Malbus, his life now flourishes with Chirrut Imwe, the blind man who visits every day.

Baze still lives downtown, and Chirrut still lives uptown. On a couple of recent weekends, Baze had dozed off on Chirrut’s couch and slept the night. Often they talk until it is past midnight, and they fall asleep, still in each other’s arms. Baze has woken up in the night with Chirrut thumbing the tiger pendant around his neck; Baze turned the amulet into a necklace so that somehow, Chirrut is always with him.

Chirrut’s dog doesn’t mind the extra company at the apartment. If anything, she adores having Baze around.

Chirrut has begun calling her ‘Rose’, but she remains as indifferent as before to the names. “It’s a hopeless cause,” Chirrut says to Baze one morning. They agree that the new bench is higher than the previous one. “I’ll just have to start calling her ‘Dog’. Come here, ‘Dog’.” His shepherd sits up and whines. “Oh, so _now_ you respond.”

Jyn, Cassian, and Bodhi as a collective is a rare sighting around the shop. It was silently agreed that the flower shop did not deserve to be held under suspicion, and their clandestine meetings were held elsewhere. They work hard towards ending wars. But when a student does drop by, they are sure to leave with a couple of flowers.

The town has observed decreased fascist activity, which is a relief, but the people remain ever ready to respond just like bamboo. Baze’s business continues to thrive; he even considers retiring or allowing himself a day off. He talks to Chirrut about this. The blind man is happy with whatever Baze decides to do.

One day, Baze notes that Chirrut's knuckles have completely healed. “There’s not even a scar,” he notes.

“They were not worthy of leaving scars,” Chirrut chirps. And he reaches up, touches Baze’s mouth, and kisses him. That’s how he kisses Baze. A touch, and then a kiss.

And eventually, oh eventually, during one early morning as the two share a couple of steamed buns, Baze decides to say it. Or at least, he tries his hardest.

“If I could give you every flower that spoke of love…” he begins, then looks at Chirrut. This was a mistake. He does not know how to finish.

The blind man knows how to save a conversation and says, “I’d have a garden.” Chirrut brushes his hands free of crumbs, then adds: “And I would be terrible at taking care of them.” He crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap, contently listening to the world move around him. His new long cane leans against the bench. Baze finishes his breakfast too, and leans back. He gazes at the street, the people, and even the skyline of the distant urban setting, but most of all, Baze looks at Chirrut.

The blind man speaks: “It’s so peaceful here. It’s as if nothing else exists.”

“Right.” Baze sighs. “Except us.”

“Except us.”

Chirrut takes Baze’s hand but suddenly frowns. “Your hands are cold.”

A smile creeps on Baze’s face. “No, yours are just warm.”

Chirrut tries to let go but Baze, chuckling, holds on. Their shouts and playful roughousing echo through the streets. “Let go! It's cold!”

“No, you're so warm! Come here-” Baze pulls Chirrut into his arms, the latter’s face burying in Baze’s neck, their shoulders shaking with laughter. “God, Chirrut, I love you.”

With full sincerity and honesty, Baze didn’t intend to say it. The phrase slips out as if he's been practicing it every day and night since they met. It is so casual, so quick, that Baze doubts that he even said it in the first place.

But Chirrut stills, so Baze must've said _something_. He feels a burning blush race to his cheeks. Chirrut slowly pushes himself up; his weight against Baze’s chest is almost negligible. He looks up at the flower shop owner, and finds his lips with a soft touch. Baze knows what's coming; it doesn't stop the thrill of loving someone.

Best of all, right before he leans in to kiss Baze, Chirrut says, “I love you too.”

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **arbutus** : you are the only one I love
> 
> \---  
> Author's Note
> 
> This story is finally completed! Thanks to everyone who supported this fic - it really meant a lot to me :)
> 
> Before publishing Chapter 10, I did go back and edit the past chapters for grammar and awkward paragraphs. You won't notice a huge difference, but to me the story flows better. Plus, I'm keeping the title 'young and beautiful' (and if you didn't know, it was inspired by the Lana Del Ray song).
> 
> I will be writing more spiritassassin! In the meantime, come and hang out with me at my [Tumblr](http://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/). If y'all are interested, I can take prompts (send me an ask) and blog my progress on longer fics.
> 
> Thank you again for reading  _young and beautiful_! 


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